A moment, if you will. The Senecas smile. It could almost be a laugh. The noise it makes in their throats, the moon-bright flash of white teeth.
Then they go still again, like statues. If you look closely you can see that they’re not breathing. There is no rise or fall in their chests. No blinks, no subtle movements. In the moving dark of the island they are nearly ghosts.
When Senna speaks, they watch, their eyes fixed on him unmovingly. It’s possible that they’re not even aware of each other’s existence; their ignorance, if feigned, is unnervingly accurate.
In a voice sweet as syrup the first one says: “No.”
In a voice mild and cold, like wind across the water, the first one says: “Yes.”
And in a voice made of birdsong the third one says: “No.”
